You Will Always Be My Masterpiece
by Sierra's Last Note
Summary: A One Direction Fanfiction! Warnings: Cutting, suicide thoughts/attempts and eating disorder. PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK AS IT COULD BE TRIGGERING After Sophie's mother is killed by her father, she goes through her days playing his 'games'. As her life is already hard, the kids at her art table aren't any better to her. (The boys) Please read the first chapter, you'll understand


**PLEASE NOTE BEFORE READING**

**THIS STORY ****DOES**** HAVE **_**SELF HARM, EATING DISORDER AND SUICIDAL THOUGHTS/ACTIONS **_** THROUGH OUT THE STORY**

**ALSO PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS IS JUST THE FIRST CHAPTER, KINDA LETTING YOU GET THE FEEL OF THIS STORY**

**ALSO PLEASE NOTE (3) THAT I AM ONLY TYPING IN CAPS BECAUSE I AM NOW TOO LAZY TO TAKE IT OFF. **

**IF YOU DO ENJOY THIS STORY, PLEASE RATE, FAVORITE, BLAHLBLAHBLAH. 3 I LOVE YOU GUYS OKAY THANKS FOR BEING AWESOME AND IF YOU WANT TO READ MORE, COMMENT AND LET ME KNOW!**

**-Sierra Nichole**

Looking out at the sky, it seems darker than usual. Like someone had painted over the glossy blue from yesterday and made it a deep sapphire. A large black circle lays in the sky- creating a void in the world. Making me wonder where it would lead me if I could follow up to it. Picturing in my head what it would be like to build a giant stair case right through the middle of the giant darkness, passing through the thick cloud into a light... heaven. I can picture my mom there. A glimmering waterfall gently bouncing off harmless rocks into a clear blue pond. Where she gently pecks her feet in to feel the temperature before deciding its nice enough to sit down and relax for awhile. Her giant blue eyes looking to me; holding out her hand for mine to invite me to paradise. To peace. And as I reach out my hand to grab onto my mothers, my dream is disturbed by the thunder becoming louder over my head.  
Exchanging the light airy surroundings of my mothers heaven with the hell of this dark beach. I sigh deeply, promising myself- promising her- that I will be there soon. No body can keep me here forever.  
I decide maybe for the best that I should just go home. I can walk slow to guarantee my fathers arrival before me (and to make sure he gets a few beers down before I arrive). Hopefully he'll be passed, and I can just sneak up to my room and sleep- waking up before him to make sure I get out of the house on time so I can get to school on time.  
For the rest of the time home- I bet myself where he could possibly be passed out this time, or if he'll have a cigarette burning in his hand at the same time.  
"I won't put it out this time." I whisper to myself. "I can just let us both burn."

~~~~~~~  
Sadly, I wake up the next morning. Alive. My father didn't have a cigarette burning, and it wasn't like I was going to catch the house on fire. Because if I did survive, I'd be put in jail for (attempted) murder and that's not usually the dream of a 16 year old girl.  
I push the wool blanket off my bare legs to reveal the bruises, the scars.. The cuts. Getting up quickly to slip on a clean pair of black jeans, a nice black sweatshirt (the same one) and my shoes. Sticking my only possession in my pocket- my cell phone- and sneaking out into the eerie hall, listening for any sign my father is awake.  
But I don't hear anything.

-  
He was awake.

I used to the pain from his fists, feet, or whatever object he is capable of getting his hands on. And I'm used to climbing back upstairs to cover up any exposed bruises with makeup, and carving a deep slit into my wrist and bandaging it up before climbing out my window and running to school.

I almost think of it as a game now. He beats me, I need to win by showing him I can beat me too. And when I cut after he leaves me helpless, I prove him wrong. Showing not only him, but me, that I am capable of taking his pain. Because I'm capable of taking my own pain. And it gives me comfort to know he's not the only one causing pain to me.

I get to school an hour late, missing my science class and having to just wanted the halls for the additional 30 minutes before my next hour starts. Opening my locker every time a teacher walks by to make it seem like I was doing something, and luckily no one questioned me about standing in the halls alone.  
But being alone is when my mind wonders- and suddenly my mind is set on grabbing the bag of mismatched pills from my bag and downing them down. Maybe then someone would realize I exist. Or, I guess, existed.

I sit my heavy bag down on the tiled floor of my art class, grabbing my pencil from the side pocket while people start to pile in 4 minutes after I got here (considering I was waiting outside the door when the bell had rung for class to be dismissed to second hour). Of course, since I'm pretty sure Ms. Powell hates me and always sits me at a table filled of annoying boys, leaving me to be the only girl- The curly haired boy (for whom I never remember the name of) sits down next to me and immediately starts to annoy me.  
"Nice sweatshirt." His British accent whispers into my ear. It's the same sweatshirt I where everyday, and it's his biggest thing he enjoys to make fun of me for. Now that it is close to summer, hot weather and all, the boys at the table take great interest to make me feel terrible about myself for wearing a black sweatshirt in such degrees. But as always, I ignore him. Taking out my art project before class even starts and begin erasing some unnecessary lines on my portrait of Gerard Way from My Chemical Romance. Which, again, these boys enjoy to comment too much on.  
"Someone's not chatting much today." Enters the second boy, who sits at the corner of our table, curly sitting of course directly next to me. I look up to find Louis, the second boys, blue eyes looking at me expectantly as if I was going to actually say something. But I lock eyes with him for only seconds before looking back down at my work. Sighs of laughing occurring from the two before the rest of the class starts to fill up and they actually take their work out.  
But of course, just like everyday, I expect to have some peace in this class. But end up with tears brimming my eyes that I need to hide from the class. The razor in my pocket burning a whole, screaming in my ears to just slash my body right in front of them and let them see how bad I am hurting. But of course, I'd never let anyone know my secret.  
But concentrating on my work is getting too hard. The curly haired boy is gluing sticks together rather then drawing the lead singer of Coldplay. Watching him pour mountains of glue on each stick before squeezing them together; the glue dripping down the sides onto the table.  
I remember reading online, a way to kill yourself- poison yourself. And glue is one of the most common ways for suicide poisoning. And as always my mind begins.  
I realize his hands have stopped moving. My eyes locked on the glue bottle as I imagine how it would feel to do it. Curly, Louis, and one of the other (of the five) boys eyes are locked on me as if I've done something wrong for watching him glue sticks together, which I play off quietly.  
"Problem?" Curly puts down the glue bottle, looking at me with one eyebrow raised and a sly smirk planted on his face. I shake my head, turning back to my drawing.  
The boy to my right, Zayn, is working on water colors. Carefully painting the picture of his mother into a masterpiece of no other. Glancing at it for inspiration to just keep drawing mine; that I could make it look nice too. Zayn doesn't seem to be as rude to me as some of the other boys, he keeps to himself while he's working, only really letting out with his friends (my art table) at the end of the class period where they all continue to pull on my nerves as if they're strings on my sweatshirt- seeing them so easily and just pulling. And pulling, and pulling.  
And I know someday, someday soon... I'm going to break. And when I break, I know there isn't any turning back.  
And I imagine them continuing to pull me apart, grabbing onto me when my body falls apart, crashing onto the ground. At first, they looked shocked, not realizing how easy it was to break me- but then everyone laughs. And the next day, I'm old news, and no body remembers the girl who killed herself.


End file.
